Silently and Often
by fulfilled
Summary: The real healing begins after he gets home. A series of vignettes set during the days after Logan returns home from the hospital after his accident. Written for the Rory Ficathon, from a prompt by standingstill.
1. Run

**Summary: **The real healing begins when he comes home. A series of vignettes set in the days after Logan's release from the hospital after his accident. Written for the Rory Ficathon, for **standingstill **(**Missez Ventimiglia**).

* * *

_Or maybe  
they saved you for me, forced open your eyes  
and knew that somewhere was a girl who dreamt in that exact shade of blue/and would thank them silently and often._

_- "Says the Miracle's Woman," by Eireann Corrigan_

* * *

**Run**

Brown eyes closed, lids shadowed, dark circles under the eyes nearly the same color as the irises hidden beneath the lids. It still scares her; still reminds her of her own mortality; still strikes terror in her heart when she realizes how close… how close…

What would she have done?

Shudders race down her spine, and she reaches for a blanket to wrap herself in. Even the mere thought leaves her cold, and the dim light of the fading sun coming in through the window isn't enough anymore. She needs to see him, crisp and sharp, illuminated in daylight, without the shadows. (And she leans over to run a hand down his face, butterfly soft, to make sure he's still warm, still breathing, still there.) She needs to be reassured, again and again and again, because if he disappears, she thinks that she might just fade into a whisper of a shadow of a breeze; a shell too empty and dried up to do anything but blow away.

His skin is warm to the touch, and he stirs in his sleep, responding to the brush of her fingers across his cheeks as she caresses the bruises, willing a healing power out of her fingers and into his skin, through his blood, into his very being.

(And he knows she didn't really mean it when she pulled away and refused his kisses, right?)

Wishing for one superpower, and this is it. Wanting Lucy's magic cordial from the land of Narnia: a single drop between his lips, on his cuts, on his wounds, and everything is better. Susan can keep her horn to call for help; she doesn't want Peter's sword and shield of courage. She longs for the little girl's fireberry cordial, the alabaster vial hung around her neck, and wonders if she had been there--really been there--before, if she might have received that gift.

Instead, she feels like Edmund, off with the White Witch, selling her chance for the gift that might save him for a piece of Turkish Delight and a ride in a winter-white sleigh, and the non-existent sweet slides bitter down her throat.

Her hand slides down the covers, under the blankets, beneath his t-shirt, coming to rest over his heart, feeling it pulse. Strong, steady, rhythmic, and she wonders if the super healing powers could seep below his skin, beneath the bruises and the battered exterior and touch whatever's broken inside him that made him jump off a cliff drunk.

Broken body, broken heart, broken spirit--does it matter? She doesn't know which is worst.

Her eyes travel his body, up and down, up and down, memorizing each contour and muscle and mark, including the ones she's not yet familiar with--the new bumps, rounded on his face and shins, bruises under the surface pushing up skin shiny and dark; the new scars, skin stretched taut and pink over the jagged edges of the gashes, knit together in angry red; the new wounds that she can't even see.

What will these wounds do to him? Will his leg ache when the smell of rain fills the air? (And it strikes her as ironic that she grew up with her mother, who smells snow and revels in the beauty, anticipating the first fall all year.) Will the sound of air rushing past him, the rocks reaching up to him, haunt his nights? Will there be a tightness in his chest every time he's about to take a step into the unknown, eerily reminiscent of the straps holding him down during that frantic flight to the hospital? It's these--the things she can't touch--that she's most afraid of.

And deeper. Beyond that to the marks that frighten her more than even those--to the questions she's reluctant to think, will probably never ask. (What made him jump? Jump drunk, she means. She knows why he would jump. But what… what hurt so deeply? What wounds were inflicted so far beneath the surface that even he had learned to ignore them?)

The apartment has gotten dark as she's sat and watched him (begged, pleaded, argued, cried, all in the silent confines of her mind), their windows dark, high above the streetlights that dance and flicker over the roads, 12 stories below.

In, out. She times her breath to match his. In, out, in…

And his catches, shuddering in his throat (like a baby's whimper, ragged and soft, a sigh too deep and torturous for such a fragile body), and she holds hers, suspended until he exhales again. Her body sags as she breathes out, rejoining him in perfect unison, and she crumples like a rag doll on the edge of the bed, wanting nothing more than to crawl in and join him, but the scars still scare her. The broken bones and bruised tissue still hold her at a distance, unwilling to do anything (more) to hurt him.

So she slumps onto the chair, bent at the waist, her hand on his cheek as she rests her head on the edge of the bed beside him and falls asleep.

(And the tear that slides down the bridge of her nose goes unnoticed, falling onto the floor at her feet, tracing a trail across the hardwood floor and under the bed.)


	2. Beyond

**Beyond**

The ground screams up at him, racing cliffs and rocks and sand, racing past his body, falling, rushing, closer, closer, closer, and at the bottom, on the floor of the canyon, just before he hits the ground, there's a carpet of blue. A carpet that becomes individual flowers, becomes her eyes, shades of blue breaking his fall, violet darkened by pain.

His eyes snap open, wide in the dark room, and he can't even reach for the bedside lamp, and it finally hits him on his third night home, when he tries to turn toward her, the silhouette of her body too far away.

She's afraid of him.

Her body is curled into the fetal position, tucked so tightly to the edge of the bed that he's afraid she might fall off, her hands balled into fists tucked under her chest, pinning them against herself.

But who is he kidding? She'd been sleeping like that for weeks before he left. There may as well have been a line drawn between them, neither one dropping their defenses, even in the unconscious movements of sleep.

But this is different—this is Rory afraid. She's wounded as much as he is, but he can't see her scars, like she can see his, and he wonders how long they'll take to heal, when he'll know that they're not still open, bleeding, raw.

Logan sighs, the deep breath pulling at his not-yet-healed stitches, and he gasps, involuntary tears stinging his eyes. Rory stirs, her head turning slightly at the noise. He stops moving, long moments passing as he lies on his back, breathing slowly, evenly, smoothly, until the pain dulls from the sharp, searing hot stabs in his gut to the persistent, constant throbbing that he's familiar with by now.

His bed doesn't feel like his own bed. Sure, it's better than the sterile white of the hospital bed, but it's not fully his yet. The room is too dark, the streetlights twelve stories below too weak to light the room; the stars too far away to be more than twinkling pinpricks in a distant inky sky. Everything is foreign, as though he's come back

Three nights before Rory started sleeping beside him again, and still she sleeps fitfully, waking too often, too restless, too shallow. He feels her restlessness and it keeps him lingering on the edge of slumber, powerless to reach out and draw her in, draw himself in: it hurts, and he won't admit that pain to her, but it's stabbing and sharp, and at moments, it's all he can do to breathe through it.

He turns his head, feeling every muscle in his neck stretch and flex as he turns toward her, like a sunflower turning toward the sun. Logan's body remains immobile, frozen in casts and painkillers, but he stretches out an arm, reaching for Rory's hand, entangling their pinkies together.

She stirs, finally turning to him, her old instincts overpowering her hesitations, one foot nudging his, and he catches his breath, exhaling deeply through the pain, the slight shifting of his leg that sends a bolt of fire up from his toes, settling in his hip.

Rory's fear radiates even in sleep. What was it like for her, those hours of wondering? (That day, that night, that time erased from his mind.) When Colin called, what roller coaster caused her stomach to drop, her heart to jump into her throat? Was it the fear that she might only ever see him again cold and waxy, coffin-fake and ghost-pale? Or was it the thought that he had taken away her reason to leave him?

(He shudders, filling his lungs, just to prove to himself that he can.)

He remembers her face, waking up in a haze of medicated oblivion and drugged pain, floating within his line of vision, pinched tight and pale, and for the first time, he was helpless. The thing that scares him most is that the helplessness hasn't gone away. He can't charm it away with words and grins, can't pretend that mortality doesn't stare him in the face, taunting and pointing fingers.

It's a strange sensation, this overwhelming desire to shelter her, to protect her, and Logan hates the fact that he was the one to make her cry. Every time she shies away, pulling her hand from his face too soon, brushing his lips with a kiss that ends too quickly, a piece of himself breaks off, and he wants to take it all back, to go back to a time before she hurt, before he jumped. Regret plagues him for the first time, and it's an unfamiliar feeling.

Rory turns again, rolling closer, and Logan holds his breath, wanting her to keep coming toward him, snuggling into his side. He'll gladly sacrifice his sleep for that—it's not like he's getting much anyway.

She seems to sense him, though, and instead of rolling into him, her nose tucked into his side and an arm flung across his waist, she stops short, a foot tentatively entwined with his, their fingers still tangled together.

And then her foot touches his cast, and her eyes flutter open.

"Hey," he whispers as her eyes slowly focus on him.

"Sorry," she mumbles, tucking her foot against her opposite leg, curling her hands against her chest, rolling back over.

"Ace…"

Rory sits up, immediately awake, turning on the lamp. "Are you okay? Do you need me to get something for you? Do you need to go to the bathroom?"

"No," Logan sighs, shaking his head slightly and reaching out a hand to take hers.

"Then… what?" Rory reaches up to brush the hair off his forehead, bracing herself on her opposite hand, her fingers lingering on his forehead. "You don't feel warm—does it feel like your fever's coming back?"

"Rory…" Her name is a plea, a cry, a prayer, a lifeline. Logan turns his head into her palm, brushing it with his lips. She softens, her fingers caressing his face, tracing soft, random patterns, her fingers dancing feather-light across his scars. Her breath catches, ragged and sharp, as her fingers trace the angry red scars across his cheeks, and Logan looks up to see tears gathering on Rory's lower lashes.

"Hey," he whispers, searching her face with his eyes. "It's okay. You know that, right?"

The tears spill out onto her cheeks, tracing trails down her face. She nods, her lips pressed together, and takes her hand away to swipe at the tears. Logan grasps for it, though, surprising even himself as he catches her hand fully in his, surprised at the range of motion in his shoulder.

"Don't."

"But…" she buries her face in her pillow, trying to wipe off the tears that way. "I'm a mess. And we should both be sleeping right now."

Logan shakes his head slowly, tugging on her hand with as much strength as he can muster. "No, we shouldn't."

Inwardly begging, asking her to realize that he needs her to need him, that this self-sufficient silent suffering isn't good enough. That it's not doing him any favors when she tries to pretend it's all okay. He tips his head over hers, resting his forehead on the crown of her head, breathing in the scent of her hair and feeling the soft shudders of her tears.

Breathing, just breathing. He doesn't say anything, hoping that even his breath washing over her will be reassurance enough that he's not going anywhere, that he's alive and real and vital, and he needs to remind himself, just as much as she needs to be reminded.

Her shaking subsides, and she slips out, taking a deep breath as she adjusts the t-shirt she's wearing over an old pair of his boxers. "I'll be back in a minute," she whispers, clicking off the light as she pads barefoot into the bathroom.

And as hard as he tries to stay awake, his eyelids become heavier as the minutes on the clock tick by, red beacons in the dark room, taunting him as the numbers pass and she doesn't come back. And when he falls asleep, it's alone again, but he can hear the gasping sobs coming from the bathroom, and it wrenches out a piece of him as he drifts back into an uneasy sleep, falling towards fields of blue flowers in his dreams.


	3. Return

**Return **

"You're not okay, Rory."

I shift on the couch, hitting the button on the remote to mute the TV. "What makes you think that?"

"I just know--I've known you for too long. You can't hide anything from me, you know." There's a smile in Lane's voice. "Sixteen years, baby. We've got a lot behind us."

"Did you just call me 'baby'?" I smile despite myself, and even I can hear it tinge my tone with a hint of warmth.

"I should know better than to try nicknames, shouldn't I?"

"Yes, you really should."

"And you should know better than to be evasive with me." We fall silent, and I know that Lane's giving me the chance to speak, but I can't bring myself to say anything. What is there to say? So much, too much, everything, nothing. It's too late for all the words that could have fixed anything. "How are you really doing?" Lane finally asks, pushing the subject slightly.

"Fine, Lane, I promise." Or it will be. I will be, but until then, there's nothing more I can say. "How's married life? How was the honeymoon? You've got to tell me about everything." I still can't quite wrap my head around the fact that she's married, and if I let myself get over-the-top incredulous about this, maybe my mind will just stop spinning, trying to comprehend the fact that my Lane Kim is no longer my Lane Kim—she's my Lane van Gerbig, and that name still sounds unfamiliar in my mouth and head, still feels like I'm talking about a distant acquaintance instead of my best friend since childhood.

"Later."

"Fine."

"Don't sigh at me like that. How's Logan?"

This is easier to answer—at least his progress has a definitive answer, unlike mine. If that can even be called progress. "Better. Walking," I say, getting up from the couch and pacing around the room. I lower my voice as I walk past the bed, watching Logan sleep, and I feel like I imagine a mother must feel, watching a child sleep and listening to make sure everything's normal.

"He got up on his own the other day—got around the apartment without any help. I think that was self-defense, though. He didn't want Doyle to have to help him to the bathroom any more than he absolutely had to. If that's not motivation to heal, I don't know what is." This, I can get enthusiastic about. I can distill it down to a few words by now; can convey all the highs and lows and successes and failures in a few adjectives and verbs. People get it. I don't have to try and put words to something abstract—I can just tell them the facts, and let those speak for themselves.

"That's great!" I love that her joy at hearing my words is real—that she's not forcing it for my sake. That she can get past the fact that even I don't really know how I feel and hear the facts—that Logan is up, that he's walking.

"Yeah, it is." I feel my own voice soften, the buoyant lift of the memory of Logan's first steps on his own draining slightly, my own exhaustion creeping in. I'm still not sleeping well—still not completely sure how to deal with this new reality in my house, in our relationship. Highs are shorter, and I sink quicker, overwhelmed.

"You don't sound very enthusiastic," she says, her voice turning just the slightest bit wary. Concerned—and now I can feel her concern shift fully from him to me.

"No—it's great." I circle into the kitchen and open the fridge, pulling out a can of soda and taking it into the living room as I talk. A smile crosses my face, even though she can't see it. "He's up, mostly around the apartment, and to go to his physical therapy appointments. That's about it. Nothing too strenuous, but he's up."

"What about his classes?" Lane asks pragmatically. "Isn't he supposed to graduate? Will he still be able to do that?"

Ah, the million-dollar—almost literally—question. It's amazing what kinds of strings real money can pull. A donation from Daddy and the administration is willing to do almost anything to extend deadlines, to make sure he doesn't fall behind. And for once, I can't even take the opposite side. I want him to do this as much as his family does, although my reasons may be a little different—I want him to succeed, to prove to himself that he has what it takes to do whatever he wants to.

"He had a pretty light semester anyway—he'd already taken all but one of his requisite courses, so these were mostly electives to fill the last few credits—and he worked it out with his professors to have someone tape the lectures for him. Most of them post the class notes and outlines online anyway, so he's keeping up with those, doing the textbook readings, and managing to stay on top of things. When he can stay awake, at least."

"That's not often?"

"No, he's like a baby—he sleeps for probably fourteen out of every twenty-four hours," _and I still can't get used to it_, I don't add. I don't tell her that it sometimes makes me uncomfortable to be in the apartment while he's sleeping, because I'm still scared that he won't wake up, even though I know he will, even though I know that the sleep is good, is healing. Even now, I check on him far too often, sometimes just sitting at the foot of the bed and watching him sleep. "I think he's getting restless, though."

"It's probably the longest Logan has ever been in one place for that long ever since he could walk and wasn't confined to a crib," Lane says, laughter creeping into her voice. "He doesn't strike me as the 'sit still and be quiet' type." I giggle, thankful that Lane is lightening the mood.

"Most of the time," I agree. "Not always, but he does need to break it up a bit."

"It's still so weird," Lane muses, almost under her breath.

"What is?" I ask, genuinely curious.

"You and him."

I'm not sure how to react to that—I thought that Lane likes Logan better than she did—or better than she had liked the idea of Logan before she actually met him. We've done a few double dates, and she seems to appreciate his sense of humor and his crazy anecdotes, and they can get into some fierce, friendly debates when they get together.

I sit up a little straighter, even my posture putting me on the defensive, and my silence must clue her in, because she hastens to add, "Oh, I don't think you're bad for each other. It's just still a little strange that your boyfriend is so out there and always doing stuff, and you're more of a homebody."

Again, not sure how to take that. "Well, it's not like we're constantly out partying—it's not even like Logan's always out partying. He likes to hang out at home and watch movies or read a book as much as I do, and I like to go out, just not every night. Which is good, because neither does he."

"Yeah, I guess," she concedes, and I exhale, a little bit surprised at the vehemence with which I've just defended our lifestyle—and not just that, but _us _. Our life together, and once again, I'm amazed that Lane and I are building our lives separately, orbiting around the men in our lives and building our own support systems that include people other than each other. Logan and I have "a lifestyle," our own habits, just like she and Zach do, and they're not always the same anymore. She's still talking, though, and I shake myself out of my reverie and tune back in. "And it seems to be good for both of you, from what I see. I think he's good for you," she finishes, ending her sentence with a slight, lilting sigh that escapes her throat in a gentle hum.

I stop, frozen by Lane's words. Good for each other. Is that enough to remind me every day when I don't know how to move forward from here? Can the simple fact that I choose him be enough? Can I let it be enough?

"Rory?" Her voice breaks into my silence.

"Yeah." I tuck my feet up under me, letting the transition of my body move my mind into a new space. "Still here."

"You okay?"

I nod, and I feel a tightening behind my eyes and in the back of my throat. "Yeah, I'm fine," I say, almost believing it for the first time since the night of Honor's wedding. For the first time in weeks, everything that's been hanging over Logan and me doesn't feel like it's going to suffocate me, doesn't feel like a fog pressing in closer and thicker, blurring my vision.

"When are you going to be in Stars Hollow?" she asks, and I can hear her running water in the background.

"I'm not sure," I hedge. "It's kind of hard to get away right now. Soon, though. As soon as I can."

"We need to hang out!" Lane exclaims. "I can't believe we haven't even seen each other since I got back from my honeymoon. I mean… that's just wrong. We should never, ever go that long again."

"I concur," I grin, laughing a little bit at Lane's enthusiasm. "Mom and I need a day together, too, so when I'm in the Hollow, I'll call you."

"Okay," she agrees, and we slip into the comfortable familiarity of the years between us. From my perch on the couch, I can see Logan stir, shifting slightly in his sleep and turning so he's facing me. A slight grimace crosses his face as he settles into a new position, and a wave of protectiveness and love washes over me, so strong that it's almost tangible, so vivid it almost feels like it's soaking through my clothes, through my skin, to the bone.

"I've got to go, Lane," I say suddenly, trying not to be abrupt. "I'll talk to you later, though."

"Okay. Good night."

I flip the phone shut and toss it on the couch, padding barefoot to the bed, where I perch myself on the edge of my side, running my fingers over Logan's face and through his hair.

"I love you," I whisper, swinging my feet up onto the bed and lying beside him, edging closer and closer, a fraction of an inch at a time, until the side of my body is flush with his, touching at shoulders, hips, and toes, still so aware—too aware—of his fragility and vulnerability, but suddenly, inexplicably, unable to be more than a fraction of an inch away from him.

"I need you," I admit, speaking quietly into his ear, and he shifts in response, turning towards my voice, and a sigh escapes his lips in his sleep. I smile, close my eyes, and let my mind rest, feeling at peace for the first time in weeks.


	4. Silence

**Silence**

It's sitting on the pool table, printed out in stark black and white.

(Did you leave it there by accident? Or did you just not want to tell her about it yourself, so you let the paper do the dirty work for you? You're not sure, though you think it's probably more of the latter.)

And when she sees it, she's livid. Furious. Her face turns shades of red, white, and mottled purple that you've never seen before—ever—and you're pretty sure the shriek could be heard by everyone in the building. You're just glad that you weren't the cause of her wrath this time.

"He _emailed_ you!"

Wow, that's loud.

"He didn't even have the courtesy to tell you _in person_!"

That's what she's concerned about?

"Forget telling you in person; he still expects you to _go_!"

Ah, there it is.

"And you're still leaving the day after graduation!"

She's pacing, roaming, covering the apartment in fewer steps than seem possible for her legs, back and forth, opening and closing cupboard doors, slamming, stomping. You'd almost think that she was throwing a tantrum, except that this isn't selfish petulance; this is her righteous indignation, and you're so numb that you can't react. She's channeling the anger for both of you, allowing you to be still, frozen, watching her.

The paper is clutched in her hand so tightly that it's wrinkled, the edges grimy with fingers and sweat and a tight grip.

"You almost died! How can he still expect you to go? Does he think that you're fully recovered? That you're ready to travel?"

You can't say anything—nothing will make this any better. You won't placate her; hell, you won't placate yourself. You want to scream and yell, but you've used up your quota for railing at God about the unfairness of life, and you just don't have the energy to get so angry. Not yet, anyway. It'll come—you have no doubt of that, but right now, you're tired.

The email hit you like a punch to the gut, knocking the wind out of you, threatening to undo all the progress that's been made. It undermines your hesitantly persistent movement towards her and her tentative steps towards you, nullifies the time and effort and tears and laughter that you've put into your relationship over the past weeks, cheapens the cost of making things right. All that can be undone by one simple email, a few simple words, an electronic transmission sent from one server to another.

It's not like you to feel this defeated, but you're almost tempted to quit going to physical therapy, to re-break your leg, to stab your own lung, anything. You can't go—you can't leave now.

You're healing, not just physically, and you don't want to stretch the tenuous thread between you so thin that it snaps.

(You stare out the window, looking across the tops of the buildings next to yours, and feel like you're already halfway up in the air, already flying, already half gone.)

Finally, her pace slows, her steps dragging, her rigid posture softening—she reminds you, almost comically, of a wind-up toy slowing to a halt—and she nearly collapses against the table, doubled over at the waist, face in her hands, elbows resting on the edge.

You push yourself up from where you're standing staring out the window, bracing one hand on your crutch and the other on the wooden windowsill until you're in an upright position again, straightening slowly until you're balanced enough that you'll be able to move to her without toppling over. (And you hobble, one lame leg in front of the other, holding your body up on pieces of wood instead of your own flesh and bones.) But she stands, straightens, wipes her eyes, moves like a blur again.

Not an angry blur this time; not a bundle of fury in a black skirt and blue top. This time, she's running from herself, running in that distinct pattern that you've seen too many times, gathering books and papers and organizing things by moving them from one flat surface to another, from one section of the apartment to another; doing silly, pointless chores like filling the ice cube trays and making sure there are extra rolls of toilet paper under the sink.

You're jealous.

You want to run like that; you want to try and forget everything, to move faster than the impending storm, to escape intact. And though you know that she can't run for long, that her body will slow down and she'll go to sleep and somewhere, sometime, she'll be caught, you want to run. You want to escape. You've been running from this your entire life, and now—in the home stretch, when you need to sprint, to feel the muscles in your legs burn and your lungs ache as you draw in oxygen, when you need the last bit of power, of energy to carry you through—now your body betrays you.

You're still standing, too long in one spot, and your joints settle into themselves, sinking and weighing down on you, locking into a position that you don't want them to be in. This is what it must feel like to get old. You're just feeling the accelerated version, and, with any luck, you'll feel yourself pull out of it and return to being yourself, but when you do start to age, you'll know it. You'll feel it subtly encroaching on your life long before you want to.

You need to move—your knee is getting stiffer by the second and your hips feel creaky—and you hobble to the couch, lowering yourself slowly, breathing a sigh of relief as you settle into the cushions and prop your cast up on the coffee table.

Your eyes drift shut to the sounds of her scurrying around the apartment, broken by an occasional sniffle, a few expletives, and enough banging to make you worry for the safety of all your belongings. You don't think you fell asleep (who ever realizes it, though?), but when you open your eyes again, the room is silent, and you look over to see her curled up into a tight ball on the other end of the couch, her eyes closed, her face still slightly red, dried tracks tracing down her cheeks, a road map of all the tears she's cried for you.

You pull her into you, tugging gently on her shoulders as she shifts in her restless, fitful sleep so that she falls into you, the weight of her body knocking you back against the back of the couch, and you gasp slightly, not ready for the impact. She turns, burrowing her head into your chest, and you wrap your arms around her, resting your cheek on her hair.

"I hate him," she mumbles.

(She's awake?)

"I know," you reply, your fingers idly tracing patterns down her arms, your fingers lacing with hers then moving back up again, in constant motion, reading her like a Braille book.

"You can't go to London—not now. Can't he at least give you until the end of the summer? You need to get better."

Her hand snakes around your neck and cups your face, her fingers tracing the scars that she now knows by heart. Sometimes, you could swear that she has healing powers in her touch, because it seems that every time she runs a hand over your scars and your scabs, they heal a little more quickly.

"I know," you repeat, at a loss for anything else to say. And since there's nothing else that will make it better, you pull her in closer, hold her a little tighter, and feel her tears soak through your t-shirt, warm on your chest.

(Later, when you both wake up again, her hair is damp and your cheeks are warm, and there's a drop of water clinging to your lower lashes. How did that get there?)


	5. Constant

**Author's Note: **This chapter contains an extra prompt for **standingstill**—one that she inadvertently gave me, but not as a part of the actual prompt for the ficathon. Several months ago, she sent me the song "Hard to Concentrate" by the Red Hot Chili Peppers, commenting that it seemed like the perfect song for Rory and Logan, and when I was given her prompt to write, I knew I had to work the song in somewhere. So here it is, **standingstill**, just for you!

* * *

**Constant**

* * *

_Hustle Bustle  
And so much muscle  
Ourselves about to separate  
And I find it hard to concentrate_

L.—

I'll be at the paper late tonight. Doyle just called me to come in and referee some sort of meltdown between Paris, Bill, and Sheila. And just when we thought things were starting to settle down over there… I tried to beg Doyle to handle it, but he kept saying something about how he'd done his time and how "you're the editor now; you deal with it."

Call me when you wake up; if you feel up to it, maybe you can come to the office and we'll order supper there.

—R.

_Death defying, this mess I'm buying_

_It's raining down with love and hate  
_

May 15, 2006

We're okay, we're okay, we're okay, we're okay. At least, that's what I keep telling myself. We have to be okay now.

He's going to London, and I can't do anything about it, but I can't let him leave with anything between us. Forgiveness? Hard. But what else can I do? I love him. That has to trump everything else.

Forgiveness? What does it mean? That, I'm still trying to figure out. Right now, it means that I help him to the bathroom and I trace his scars with my fingers and I let him hold me again and we watch movies together and I do the dishes because it still hurts him to stand up for that long. It means that I cook sometimes, and that I meet his eyes when I talk to him, and that I help him button up his shirt when his all the muscles still won't cooperate. It means that I tell him about my day, and I ask his opinion on things at the paper, and I don't throw his phone across the room when I see his dad's name on the call display and I hand it to him to answer.

Does it mean that I forget? No. But, then again, I don't think that's what forgiveness means, is it?

This isn't much. Does it make a difference? I have to believe that it does, because if it doesn't, what's the point?

_And estuary is blessed but scary  
Your heart's about to palpitate  
And I'm not about to hesitate  
_

"Logan. Grant Carter, tenants' association, returning your call from the other day. Let's set up a meeting to discuss the lease on your apartment for the next year. I understand that we're switching it from your father's name into yours? I'll need to get the new information, go over the terms of the lease, and set up the new banking information. Call me at 569-1963, and we'll discuss this further."

_And finally you have found something perfect  
And finally you have found…  
Here we go._

The President and Fellows of

Yale University

announce that

Logan Elias Huntzberger

is a candidate for the degree of

Bachelor of Arts

at the three hundred fifth

commencement exercises

Monday the twenty-second of May

in the year two thousand six

at ten-thirty o'clock in the morning

on the Old Campus

_Is living in this figure eight  
And I'll do my best to recreate.  
_

"Do you want me to drive for a while?"

"Are you kidding?"

"Well, I could push the gas pedal with my cane…"

"I don't think so."

"So you're fine to drive the rest of the way? Do you need to stop for a bathroom break?"

"Logan! I'm fine! It's only another hour to the Vineyard. I think I can hold it for that long. If I had to go in the first place. Which I don't. So it's fine. You just don't like being in the passenger's seat."

"Are you sure?"

"You're such a little kid—you're so impatient when you can't be in charge!"

"Don't laugh at me!"

"Awww, should we play a game to help pass the time? I spy? I'll start. I spy with my little eye something that is… pouty."

"That's not fair, Ace."

"Sure it is. I spy it; you have to guess it."

"You're getting far too much amusement out of this."

"Damn right. How often do I get to drive the Porsche with you in the passenger's seat? Not very."

"Fine. I'll play."

"Good."

"But only if you stop smirking like that."

"Not smirking, Logan."

"Totally smirking, Ace."

"If you don't spy something soon, you forfeit your turn, and then I get an extra point."

"Since when is 'I Spy' played with points?"

"Since I feel like beating you."

"Fine. I spy with my little eye something that is not going to have any _fun_—if you know what I mean—this weekend if she doesn't stop torturing her poor, incapacitated boyfriend whom she loves very much. And, might I add, that would defeat the entire purpose of coming to the Vineyard."

"The _entire_ purpose? And you wouldn't be able to keep from having 'fun'—especially not when I'm driving the Porsche. You're just dying to reclaim your manliness somehow, since you can't drive your fancy car."

"I'll miss this."

"Don't say it like that. You make it sound like I'm never going to see you again."

"Trust me; I'm not that easy to get rid of."

_Our heart's about to palpitate  
And I find it hard to separate.  
_

Asleep. Last time for a very long—too long—too many nights loom. The thought won't finish itself. Dreading alone… night after night.

She doesn't think she'll really sleep for months now.

Fitful dreams, wakeful sleep, dozing, tossing, turning, injuries be damned.

(If the pain keeps him awake, it makes it more real, makes him more aware, he can't fall asleep and forget and miss and lose out and watch the last hours fade.)

He gives up, lies still, pulls her in, cradles her head to his chest, watches her sleep.

She knows home when she feels it. Sleeps better when she's in it. Breathes him in, the oxygen that feeds her, keeps her alive.

Her hair falls across his chest, soft, smelling like citrus, and he clings to her, even in her sleep, even when she shifts, unwilling to let her go. This will have to carry him through for a long time—this will be the last memory, the most vivid. This will give life and breath to the picture painted vibrantly in his mind, in full color and shape and sound and taste. The color of her eyes, the taste of her skin, the smell of her hair, the cotton of her pajama pants hiked up around her calf, skin and fabric side-by-side against his bare legs.

She watches him through a slit in her eyelids, enjoying the feeling of his eyes on her when he doesn't realize that she's watching him back. His eyes travel her body, drinking in the contours and planes that his hands have already memorized, and it reminds her of the nights that she spent sitting beside the bed, trying to reconcile this damaged, bruised, fragile body with the fearless, adventurous boy that she loved. Loves, she amends, a quiet smile filling her chest.

His new body, scars and imperfections and all, is as familiar to her as her own, is as deeply beloved as it has ever been, and yet she wonders how it will change before she sees it again.

The things that don't change comfort her, though, and she seeks out his heartbeat, placing her ear on his chest so it resounds in her head, filling her mind, filling her own heart until they beat in perfect time. Unconsciously, her fingers tap out the cadence lightly on his abdomen, and she feels his smile spread all the way through his body and into hers as his fingertips brush the skin on her shoulder, coming to rest over her heart, his hand cupping her heartbeat, catching the beat in his palm.

His thumb brushes the rhythm of her heart back and forth against her skin in perfect unison with the light beat of her fingers silently marking the cadence of his against the taut muscles that she has claimed as her own.

His bittersweet smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. "We match."

Tears fill her eyes, soaking into his bare skin as she tips her head up until their eyes meet, her fingers still tapping the steady rhythm of their heart. "Of course we do."

_And finally you have found someone perfect  
And finally you have found…  
Yourself._


	6. Interlude

**Interlude**

The picture sits prominently on both of their desks, separated by the water of the Atlantic Ocean, in matching simple black frames.

She wears a midsummer-sky blue dress that turns her eyes into cornflowers, bluebells, violets; a garden that makes her entire face bloom, radiant and lit from within. Her hair is loose, wavy, spilling over her shoulders and down his chest. She's leaning with her back against his chest, her head tipped up against his shoulder in a laugh as one hand has snaked around his neck and is tugging on the tassel of his mortarboard.

His face is captured mid-laugh, smirking, about to burst into a full grin. The corners of his mouth are turning up despite his best efforts, and his eyes have come so alive that it looks like he's going to step right out of the frame. His arms are locked around her waist, the black of his graduation gown a striking backdrop for her dress, and his hands overlap each other, each one resting on her opposite hip, as though it would be impossible for him to grasp her too tightly.

Their eyes are locked together, and the photo conveys the distinct sense that, for them, for that moment, the surrounding world has ceased to exist. And although individually their eyes are sparkling, vibrant, playful, the look between them runs deeper than the bright laughter. The energy, the current between them, is almost palpable, and it almost seems like it would be possible to trace, connecting them and creating a single entity.

Beneath the smiles lies a world of emotion, and on closer inspection, the sharp blue of her eyes seems magnified by unacknowledged, unshed tears, and the space between them is filled with words that only they can hear. The grip of his arms is as much to anchor himself as it is to pull her close, and the tightness in the corners of his mouth serves to control his emotions as well as hold back a laugh. Her fingers, reaching for his tassel, reach beyond that, a hairsbreadth away from closing the distance between them and caressing his face.

And permeating it all, beyond the deep joy and the deep longing, the picture overflows with love and pride and belief and… future.

When she can't quite remember what she's holding onto, she looks at his arms around her and feels a tightening around her waist, and she holds onto that. When he can't see what his eyes are fixed on, he looks at the way her eyes capture his, and his vision clears. And when they both wake from a dream that's too good to be true and the loneliness threatens to overwhelm, they look at the grins and small smiles slip back onto both their faces to sustain them until the next phone call, the next visit, the next embrace.

It's all there, laid out in vibrant, brilliant color, the stuff that makes the dreams come to life after their eyes open.

_-fin-_

* * *

**Author's Note:** And there we go. It's been a pleasure to dig through this part of Rory and Logan's relationship, and to look at the process of healing that we didn't get a chance to see. I was so glad to get **standingstill**'s prompt, and I hope I gave her what she was hoping for!

**Prompt**_(two choices)_:  
"Do not forget I have also been Orpheus,  
on my knees in the boat, asking all the devils for your face in the trees" - "Came Tumbling After" from Eireann Corrigan's poetry memoir _You Remind Me of You_

"Or maybe  
they saved you for me, forced open your eyes  
and knew that somewhere was a girl who dreamt in that exact shade of blue/and would thank them silently and often." - "Says the Miracle's Woman", also by Eireann Corrigan and from the same book of poetry

**One thing you would like to see in the story**: Rory and Logan dealing with the aftermath of Logan's accident or from some separation of a sort  
**One thing you don't want to see in the story**: a marriage or a marriage proposal


End file.
